Consequences
by fengirl88
Summary: John is confused and this time it's not about Sherlock.  Sequel to Triple Jump, dealing with the fallout from the Baker Street Triangle's threesome.  John/Lestrade/Sherlock.  Rated M for sexual content.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Consequences (1/?)  
Author: fengirl88  
Fandom: BBC Sherlock  
Pairing: John/Lestrade/?Sherlock  
Disclaimer: These characters are still not mine. No matter how hard I stare at them.  
Wordcount: 970  
Rating: NC-17  
Warnings: sexual content, fallout from threesome  
Summary: John is confused again and this time it's not about Sherlock.  
A/N: This is all ** **blooms84****'s fault for writing The Unbearable Fineness of Lestrade and making me sad about Lestrade all over again. The whole story is up on livejournal.**

The events John is recollecting here take place in **Triple Jump.**

**Consequences **

**Part I**

**John**

This whole thing is Sherlock's fault. John knows that, but it doesn't make it any easier.

He never used to be able to see the point of Lestrade. Could see the point of him as a copper, obviously: Lestrade's good at his job, as good as they come. And John doesn't share Sherlock's basic contempt for the police, so he's always _respected_ Lestrade. Grudgingly. But he's never seen the _attraction_, even though he knows Sherlock does. To put it mildly. Some sort of affair between the two of them before John and Sherlock got together, and _something_ still going on there, always an atmosphere between them. It used to make John furious and resentful, God knows, wishing Lestrade didn't exist, or could be promoted to Chief Constable of ... Wales, or somewhere. Somewhere suitably remote.

And then it all changed. Which is definitely Sherlock's fault. So why is _John_ the one who feels guilty?

Not that Sherlock ever feels guilty about anything, of course.

The threesome had been Sherlock's idea, and John and Lestrade were both pretty sceptical about the whole thing, though they'd gone along with it, because Sherlock has a way of talking you into things you'd never have thought you'd say yes to in a million years. But for John, and for Lestrade too, he thinks, the point was to have sex with Sherlock. Having sex with each other was the price they had to pay.

Which really wasn't how it turned out, because of the kissing. John gives a little moan, thinking about it again. Ridiculous that it could have that effect on him, but it does. Ever since that night ten days ago, it's all he's been able to think about. The feeling of Lestrade's mouth on his, Lestrade's tongue teasing his lips and then probing deeper, caressing, exploring. Making John feel as if he was falling through space and also somehow as if the space was _inside _him, aching to be filled.

He doesn't let himself think about what followed: undressing Lestrade with frantic eagerness, taking Lestrade's cock in his mouth and sucking him hungrily, Lestrade's cries and gasps as he came in John's mouth. Doesn't let himself think about it, but flashes of it keep ambushing him at inconvenient moments just the same.

And he feels guilty. _Oh god, yes. _

He's been waiting for Sherlock to suggest another threesome, but it hasn't happened yet. Not surprising, really, the way Sherlock ended up losing control of that one. Sherlock hadn't been pleased about that _at all_, though he'd been defeated even in his attempts to complain about it. Which was Lestrade's doing, again. First he'd broken the deadlock between Sherlock and John by making them both come, _don't think about that_, John tells himself, blushing at the memory of Lestrade's hands pumping their two cocks, John's and Sherlock's, together. And then when Sherlock got annoyed that Lestrade had wrested control from him, Lestrade had done it all over again with that crazy tickle-fight. John squirms, remembering how _that _had ended, with him sucking Sherlock's cock and Lestrade fucking Sherlock. Something that should have been all about Sherlock and yet somehow _wasn't_, as if he and Lestrade were also having sex with _each other_, and Sherlock was just a kind of – of _medium _for that.

God, this is weird.

He supposes he _could _suggest another threesome himself, but he knows Sherlock would see through that, and he doesn't feel up to dealing with whatever Sherlock's reaction would be. He wonders how Lestrade feels about it all and what he's thinking and whether Lestrade thinks about him the way he's been thinking about Lestrade. He hasn't felt like this for years. It's almost like having a crush on someone. _So _like it, that he has to recognize, miserably, that that's exactly what it _is_.

A crush on Lestrade. Oh _great_. Does it get any worse than this? If it does, John doesn't want to know.

He imagines inventing some pretext to turn up at Lestrade's flat, finding Lestrade about to have an early night, already in his – what would Lestrade be wearing? pyjamas? dressing-gown? - _shit_, even _fantasy_ is harder than it used to be. Well, anyway, wearing something warm and soft and pleasing to the touch, _oh god_... Imagines himself saying to Lestrade _I had to see you _and Lestrade saying _I know. It's the same for me, ever since that night_, and then the kiss, another kiss like that one and falling into space and -

This really is getting embarrassing. He's going to have to do _something_ about it. Maybe if he talked to Lestrade -

Well, _that's_ a stupid idea for a start.

Can't talk to Sherlock about it, obviously.

Maybe a run and a cold shower will take his mind off it.

Not that _that's _worked for the last week, even though John's kept religiously to his exercise regime.

Walking past Lestrade's office in his lunch-hour really isn't sensible at all.

Going into the building is definitely a very bad idea.

But it seems to be what he's doing anyway.

That was a _very _odd look Donovan just gave him.

Probably because Sherlock's just leaving Lestrade's office. And looks really surprised, understandably, to see John there. Surprised, and not too pleased.

John's never been sure if Sherlock can _actually _read his mind. He _really _hopes Sherlock can't, given what's been going through it recently.

"Were you looking for me?" Sherlock asks.

The temptation to lie is almost overwhelming, but John resists it.

"No," he says, wishing his mouth weren't so dry. "I just – just wanted a word with Lestrade about something."

"Oh," Sherlock says, sounding uncharacteristically disconcerted. "Well, be my guest."

And he walks away towards the lift, leaving John standing outside Lestrade's door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Consequences **

**Part 2 **

**Sherlock**

Sherlock glares at the nicotine patches on his arm. _Not working_. He's never had more than a three-patch problem in his life and he doesn't intend to start now.

This is all Lestrade's fault. Might have known he'd mess things up somehow.

That threesome had been a bloody bad idea. Thought he'd finally got all the pieces lined up on the chessboard just the way he wanted them, and then -

Not that it had been entirely unsatisfactory. Physically, that is. That last bit where Sherlock was sandwiched between John sucking him off and Lestrade fucking him had been ... very agreeable. More the sort of thing he'd had in mind when he set it up in the first place.

Certainly a lot pleasanter than all that stupid _tickling_ nonsense just before it. _Childish_. Typical Lestrade, taking advantage of his weakness like that. And John – the unfairness of John ganging up on him with Lestrade, he can't even _think_ about it without becoming childish himself. _Ganging up on_.

John knows perfectly well what that stuff does to him. Giving him away like that to Lestrade and then _joining in_.

He really is quite seriously annoyed with John about that.

It ought to be scientifically possible to invent a cure for it. The whole thing is completely irrational, particularly its side-effects.

His own voice echoes in his head, begging _please no please stop I can't bear it_, and then _please fuck me oh god please now_. Can't seem to get rid of the echo and it's _really_ annoying. Makes him feel things he doesn't want to feel. Stupid to be getting an erection, thinking about all that.

Sherlock glares again at the useless patches. He's _seriously_ wondering about adding a fourth, even if it _does_ lead to nicotine poisoning.

But the tickling wasn't the worst of it, not by any means. What was worse – and _is _worse – is what happened with John and Lestrade.

He'd thought it would be amusing, seeing those two together. Amusing, and safe, because they've resented each other, _hated_ each other almost, since the day they met.

Lestrade at the crime scene, saying suspiciously _Who's this?_

He'd enjoyed the exchange, winding Lestrade up: _He's with me_.

_-But who __**is**__ he?_

_-I __**said**__, he's with me._

And John, later that night, asking him what the story was with him and Lestrade. Obviously not really believing Sherlock's claim that the relationship was just professional. John's not _completely_ stupid.

He is _exceptionally _annoying, though. Especially at the moment.

Not as amusing as he'd thought it would be, watching the two of them kissing like that. More uncomfortable than watching them have sex, which doesn't make sense at all. He'd wanted to take it out on John, make him sweat a bit, and _bloody_ Lestrade had ruined that as well. Interfering. And then making stupid jokes about _geometry_.

John's been acting strangely ever since that night. Which is really worrying. Because John is, in almost every way, the most normal man Sherlock knows. The one who can be relied on _not_ to act strangely at all.

Now, John keeps staring off into the distance, and jumping and blushing when Sherlock asks him what he's thinking about. Unprecedented in itself: Sherlock's never needed to ask what _anyone's _thinking before. It's never _mattered_.

And when Sherlock _does_ ask, John just says _Oh nothing_. Sherlock has watched enough crap telly by now to know that this is code for _I'm having sexual thoughts about someone other than you and it's making me feel guilty._ Which is a lot to make two words mean, but apparently that's how the shorthand works.

And he doesn't need the science of deduction to work out who that _someone else_ is. Even if Sherlock couldn't believe it when he first thought of it. _Bloody Lestrade_.

If he'd had any lingering doubts, seeing John just now at Lestrade's office was – _incontrovertible evidence_. Never seen John looking so _guilty_ about anything. And what could he possibly _just want a word with Lestrade_ about?

Didn't look as if a _word_ was what he wanted. Sherlock knows that look, the part of it that isn't guilt at least. It's the look John gets when he wants to have sex and is too shy to ask. Sherlock hasn't seen so much of it lately, partly because John hasn't been so shy about asking. But he remembers it, that mixture of shyness and hope and lust. And seeing John looking like that about someone else does most peculiar and unpleasant things to Sherlock's insides.

They're probably at it now, Sherlock thinks savagely. _Kissing_. Huh.

Never understood the point of _that_. He knows it's expected, but really, of all the time-wasting, messy, adolescent, _boring_ -

John doesn't think it's boring.

Seemed to be liking it _a lot_ with Lestrade. _Whimpering_, of all things. Not good, hearing that. _Really _not good.

It can't be that difficult if _Lestrade's_ good at it. Can it?

Sherlock feels stupid and he _hates_ feeling stupid. It really hadn't occurred to him that he might lose John to another man. Well, _lose_ is a melodramatic term, absurd really, but -

He's come close to losing John before, when he's done something _not good_. And there was that narrow squeak when John thought he should try to have a girlfriend, stupid idea, easy to see _that_ one off. It was perfectly obvious John's heart wasn't in it. But this is different.

Looking like that about Lestrade. Going to Lestrade's office when he had no business being there _at all_.

Sherlock wonders whether John would have told him about going to see Lestrade if they hadn't run into each other. Another seriously uncomfortable thought. John _never_ lies. Well, apart from trying to bluff Sherlock about shooting that serial killer, but that had been ridiculous and rather sweet.

Lying about going to see Lestrade wouldn't be either of those things.

Sherlock doesn't like the thought of John lying to him. Makes him feel even more peculiar in his insides.

He wonders if this is how John feels when Sherlock lies to him about something. Another uncomfortable thought. Too many for one afternoon.

He wonders if there are any cigarettes anywhere in the flat. Probably not. There definitely isn't anything stronger. And anyway that really _would _ be the end of it. He knows that.

Sherlock curls up unhappily on the sofa, hugging his knees for comfort. Might be good if he could fall asleep. He hasn't slept well for a few nights now, and going without sleep seems to bother him more than it used to.

He wonders what John and Lestrade are doing now.

Hopes Lestrade isn't busy telling John everything Sherlock said to him just before John arrived. Probably is, though.

Talking about things is always a mistake. He really ought to know better by now.

If John's going back to work this afternoon he won't be home for _hours_ yet.

Sherlock doesn't let himself think about what else John might do with the afternoon, because John _wouldn't_. Wouldn't not turn up for work.

Nothing to stop him meeting Lestrade again _after_ work, though, is there?

Sherlock used to think there was nothing worse than being bored. Now he's not so sure.


	3. Chapter 3

**Consequences **

**Part 3**

**Lestrade**

Lestrade's still puzzling over that frankly weird conversation with Sherlock when he realizes JW, _John_, is hovering in the doorway.

"Hello," Lestrade says, trying not to sound as surprised as he feels, because that might be rude. "You've just missed Sherlock – should I call down to the front desk and see if he's still in the building?"

John shuffles. He looks quite uncomfortable.

"Er," he says, "um. No. I – wanted to see you, actually."

Scenes We Seldom See. Nobody would get the joke if Lestrade sent it to _Private Eye, _so he won't bother. But this is distinctly odd.

"Sure," Lestrade says, "no problem. Come in, have a seat."

John comes in, shuts the door behind him. Doesn't sit down though. Wanders about looking confused. Sort of thing that would qualify as _pacing_ if it was a bit more energetic.

"Are you OK?" Lestrade asks.

"Fine," John says, not sounding fine at all. But he does say that all the time, so it's not much of a guide.

"Would you like coffee or something?" Lestrade says.

"Oh – no, thanks, I'm fine," John says. _Blushing._

Why would someone blush about not wanting coffee?

The answer to that seems to be lost in transit somewhere. There's an embarrassing silence.

Maybe it's not surprising, Lestrade thinks. The last time he was in a room with John neither of them had any clothes on and they'd both just had sex with Sherlock. And each other. Which, given how little they know each other, really, and the history between them (not good), means this next meeting was _always_ going to be pretty bloody awkward. Apart from anything else, he still has quite vivid memories of John sucking him off, and his hand seems to remember the feel of John's arse, rather nice it was too, as Lestrade pulled him in close for a deeper kiss. Wouldn't mind betting John's remembering some of that too. Probably explains the blush.

"Bit awkward about the other night," Lestrade says. Might as well get it out into the open, clear the air a bit.

John doesn't say anything. Blushing even more now.

"But I don't think Sherlock's going to make a habit of it," Lestrade says, "so you don't need to worry."

Still nothing. John goes on blushing and looking confused.

"What was it you wanted to see me about?" Lestrade asks.

John seems to be struggling to speak. Fails. Looks out through the glass door at Donovan in the outer office, who is staring interestedly. Picks up a paperweight and fiddles with it. Drops it on the floor.

They both bend down to retrieve it, and bang their heads together. _Slapstick, _Lestrade groans to himself. Just what this little scene needed. Comedy gold. But they're not laughing.

"Sorry," Lestrade says, putting the paperweight back on the desk. "Are you all right?"

He puts his hand on John's head, feels for a bump. John inhales sharply.

"Should get that looked at," Lestrade says. "Don't want you having concussion. The NHS would have my arse for breakfast."

Possibly not the best thing to say, in the circumstances.

"I'm fine," John protests. "I can get someone at the practice to take a look at it, but honestly it's just a bump. Please don't _fuss_, Lestrade."

"OK," Lestrade says. "You're the doctor. Just be careful, yes?"

"Yes," John says. He's not blushing now. If anything he's looking rather pale. Probably _has_ got concussion, silly bugger. Oh well. There's no helping some people.

Still hasn't said what he came for.

Lestrade wonders if it _is_ about the threesome. Sherlock was very insistent just now that John _really_ hadn't liked it and although _of course _it had been lots of fun that meant they couldn't do it again. Which had surprised Lestrade, because usually Sherlock's not very interested in what anybody else wants, especially if it clashes with what Sherlock wants himself. Quite touching, in a way. But then it's clear to Lestrade that Sherlock has feelings for John Watson that he hasn't had for anyone before. First time Lestrade's known Sherlock to have _feelings_, full stop.

"It'll be all right, you know," Lestrade says. "Bound to be a bit awkward for a while after something like that, but things will shake down and it'll soon be back to normal. He's – really _fond_ of you."

John looks completely miserable. So miserable Lestrade almost gives him a hug, which really _wouldn't_ be a helpful thing to do in the circumstances. Gives him a manly thump across the shoulder blades instead. Possibly too hard, because John yelps and jumps.

"Sorry," Lestrade says again. "Don't know my own strength."

"No, it's – I'm _fine_," John says. "Really. It's all fine."

"Look," Lestrade says, making an effort, "you and me, we didn't really get on at first. Not surprising, what with one thing and another. But it would be nice if that could change. I'm not saying we'll ever be best mates or anything, but maybe we can, erm, make a fresh start or something?"

John swallows hard. Making an effort of his own, from the look of it. "Sure," he says. "Yes, that would – that would be fine. Would be – nice."

Good man, Lestrade thinks. Jesus, that looked like hard work.

"OK, then," Lestrade says. "It's a deal. Forget everything that's happened so far, clean slate, nice to meet you, let's start again. We can go for a pint some time when you want to let off steam about Sherlock. Bound to happen sooner or later."

John smiles, rather tensely. "OK," he says.

Then, astonishingly, he hugs Lestrade tightly for a moment, and stumbles out of the office muttering something about _afternoon surgery_ and _get a cab_.

Still never said what he came for.

This definitely is one of the weirder days at the Yard, Lestrade thinks, watching John sprint towards the lift.


	4. Chapter 4

**Consequences**

**Part 4**

**John**

John is running, running for all he's worth, muscles screaming, heart pounding, well past his normal limit, trying to shut off the tape loop that keeps playing over and over again in his head.

It's been a long afternoon at the surgery. He thought it would never end. Wanted to yell at half the patients to fuck off and stop being so _stupid_. Which is really not like him. And even if some of them _are_ there for reasons well within their control, or have come with anxieties about phantom pains and imaginary lumps, it's not their fault he's feeling like shit. He shouldn't be taking it out on them. And he doesn't, because he's a good doctor. But it's a bloody close call. Closer than he likes to think about.

He's eaten up with shame and the run just _isn't_ burning it away. Even though he's been running half as long again as he usually would, even though he's so tired that all he wants is to collapse into bed _right now_. He needs to stop soon or he won't be able to get home.

But he can't stop thinking about that scene in Lestrade's office. The way he'd made a complete prat of himself, hadn't even managed to come up with a half-way plausible excuse about why he'd gone to see Lestrade. Didn't manage to say anything at all. Not even a frankly _im_plausible excuse. Not even the truth. _Fuck._

Lestrade must have thought he'd taken leave of his senses, hugging him like that. Well, he'd be right. Of all the stupid, inappropriate things to do.

It's obvious that Lestrade thinks of John as Sherlock's partner and nothing else. The way he'd assumed that John needed reassurance about _Sherlock_ after the threesome, saying_He's really __**fond**__ of you._ Thinking about that makes John feel guiltier than ever, because he knows it's true. _Sherlock_, who most days doesn't seem capable of being fond of _anyone_.

Lestrade really _couldn't_ have made it clearer that he wasn't interested in John. Not in that way. All that stuff about a clean slate and going for a pint to let off steam about Sherlock. _I'm not saying we'll ever be best mates or anything_. Never mind what John would _like_ to be to Lestrade, whatever that is –

John stumbles and doubles up, panting. Not enough breath to groan.

What Lestrade must be _thinking_ of him. _Oh God._ Turning up for no good reason, tongue-tied, blushing, _dropping_ things and oh god, that stupid business of bumping heads, and then the way he'd gasped when Lestrade touched him because it went right through him, the shock of it. And Lestrade thinking he was hurt and going on about concussion. _Shit_. When all the time he just wanted –

_Not_ going to think about that. Not if he still has a shred of sanity left.

He wonders what Sherlock said to Lestrade. Sounded as if it'd been something about the threesome, because of that thing Lestrade said, _Don't worry, I don't think Sherlock's going to make a habit of it_. Maybe Sherlock really has been reading his mind. Oh God. Knows what John is feeling, what he's been wanting. Why he was there, wanting to say to Lestrade –

_Stop that_. He's not going to think about what he wanted to say to Lestrade. Much less what he wanted to _do_. Or what he wanted Lestrade to do. Get home, have a shower and go to bed early. Tell Sherlock he's feeling a bit under the weather, which God knows isn't even a lie, he feels like _shit_. Probably is coming down with something.

Sherlock's curled up on the sofa when John gets back to 221b. John's not sure if he's asleep or just having a really massive sulk, but decides it's best to behave as if he thinks it's the former. Goes upstairs to the bathroom and gets into the shower.

He's aching all over from the run – probably was a bit stupid to push himself quite so far. Hadn't realized he'd been out that long – he's almost an hour later back than usual. Well, by the time he'd got back to the surgery to pick up his things and then got stuck in the Tube on the way home because he was too tired to walk it and you can't _keep_ taking taxis everywhere, Sherlock's influence, a habit he really ought to break, one of many...

Not feeling up to a cold shower and anyway he's craving a hot one to try to get the stiffness out of his muscles. Usually he'd just be in and out quickly but that's not going to be enough today.

It's soothing, the water hitting his tired body and running over him and over him, and he likes the smell of this new soap, not sure where it came from, doesn't think he bought it but it's not really like Sherlock to take an interest in this sort of thing unless it's for a case. Which he doesn't think it is. Maybe Mrs Hudson put it there. Nice, anyway. He's starting to relax now, almost getting a bit drowsy, and the tape loop is becoming fainter.

Or rather, the tape loop is changing into something more like the scene he'd wanted to happen. Which he really shouldn't be letting himself imagine, but the warmth and the steam are getting to him in predictable ways, and he's just too tired to fight it off.

He imagines Lestrade looking – well, more the way _he'd_ probably looked. Excited and a bit guilty at seeing John, especially after Sherlock had just been there. Imagines Lestrade saying "I didn't think I'd see you today, didn't think there was a chance of it." Blushing.

_Oh god_. He likes that idea a bit too much really, Lestrade blushing about _him_. And this time John saying straight away, with no stammering or paperweight-dropping, "I had to see you, couldn't wait another minute." The intensity of Lestrade's gaze, looking so deep into his eyes that he feels naked. _Yes. That. _Thinking about it makes him slightly dizzy.

Lestrade pulling down the blinds so Donovan and the others wouldn't see him taking John in his arms and kissing him passionately, _oh god_, pushing John up against the door and groping him frantically through his trousers and unbuttoning and unzipping him and pushing him down onto the desk, scattering papers and, and _objects_, never mind what they are, wrapping John's legs around his waist and taking John hard and quickly, so forcefully that he has to cram his fist into his mouth to keep from crying out, or -

_Oh god_. A different image, forcing its way into his mind, _what the hell is this? _But he can't push it away. Lestrade fucking him across the desk, _oh god_ _yes_, but fucking him face down and helpless and exposed, fucking him right there, in the glass-walled office, not even bothering to pull the blinds down first, and everybody _watching_ and sweet Jesus that really should _not_ be hot but it is, unstoppably and he can't hold out any longer and _oh –_

There's a hammering on the bathroom door and Sherlock saying "Are you all right? You've been in there for _ages_," and John can't answer, he's still shuddering and jerking, coming so hard he's seeing stars and can hardly stand up, collapsing against the tiled wall of the shower.

"I'm OK. Be out in a minute," he gasps eventually. Waits for the sound of Sherlock going back downstairs but it doesn't come.

_Shit_. Sherlock's obviously waiting for him to emerge and John _really_ doesn't feel up to facing him yet. He's still breathless and dizzy with the rush of orgasm and _definitely _feeling much too guilty to look Sherlock in the eye.

No way the world's greatest detective is not going to deduce what _he's _just been doing. Fantasies and all. You'd have to be a lot less observant than Sherlock to miss _that_.

But he can't stay in here all night. Going to have to face Sherlock sooner or later.


	5. Chapter 5

**Consequences**

**Part 5**

**Sherlock**

After what feels like hours, the bathroom door finally opens. John emerges, towel wrapped round his waist. Which is promising. But also clutching his clothes and shoes to his chest. Which is more problematic. Still, one mustn't be deterred by these minor setbacks.

Sherlock considers saying _Put that stuff down and come here_, but he's not sure that's quite the right form of words. Not at the moment. It would be fine if John hadn't been acting strangely. Or if he hadn't turned up at Lestrade's office like that. Or hadn't come home at least an hour later than usual.

Sherlock feels uncertain, and he's not used to feeling uncertain. But he does his best to set that aside, and moves to embrace John, clothes and shoes and all. John of course can't return the embrace, because his arms are already full. Even so, he could be a _bit_ more responsive, Sherlock thinks. Positively _rigid_, as if he's just waiting for Sherlock to stop and then he'll relax.

"It's a bit cold out here," John says fretfully.

Sherlock wants to say _Come to bed and let me warm you up_, but somehow the words don't materialize.

"I – I should probably put something on," John says. "And hang my clothes up."

Sherlock can't think of a good counter-argument to that so he doesn't say anything.

"_Sherlock_," John says, not impatiently but with a sort of _frayed_ note in his voice, "could you let go of me, please, so I can get out of this draught and put something on?"

He doesn't say _I'll catch my death of cold and it will all be your fault_, but Sherlock knows that's what he's thinking.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock says, letting go abruptly. "Sorry."

Though what _he's_ got to apologise for when _John _is the one who's an hour late... Oh god, John's _shivering._

"I'll make you some tea," Sherlock says hastily. "Would you like some tea? For the cold?"

"Thank you," John says, sounding very unenthusiastic. "Although – I'm not sure _tea_ is what I need right now. But something hot would be good."

"Honey and lemon?" Sherlock's never actually made this for anyone, or for himself, but really how hard can it be? And he's fairly sure they have honey. And a lemon. Somewhere. Though he might have used the lemon in an experiment. May have to improvise if so.

"Thank you," John says, sounding marginally less unenthusiastic now, "that's a nice thought."

"You get to bed and I'll bring it up to you," Sherlock says. It's the sort of thing people say in TV dramas, so presumably it's OK. Seems to be OK, John isn't arguing.

John heads for the bedroom and Sherlock heads for the kitchen.

He was right about the lemon. Used it in that battery experiment. Bother.

What else do people put with honey for colds?

Whisky. There _is _some whisky in the cupboard. John won it in a raffle at some charity event he'd gone to with Clara, and it's been sitting there unopened ever since. It doesn't look like particularly _nice_ whisky, but it's probably OK with hot water and honey. At least the honey is there, and it _is _honey, he's checked that already today. Only just managed to stop John spreading the contents of _the wrong jar_ on his toast this morning. Sherlock licks the spoon cautiously just to make sure. Fine.

He has to guess at quantities and proportions, but that _looks_ about right.

John's already in bed with the light off. In normal circumstances that wouldn't be a bad sign, not necessarily, but tonight Sherlock's not so sure. He lights a night-light, which reminds him of Angelo saying _I'll get a candle for the table, it's more romantic. _Never used to bother with that sort of thing, but that time there was a power cut it had been rather nice having sex in the flickering light, seeing the shadows on the bedroom wall -

"You could just have put the light on, it's OK," John says, breaking in on Sherlock's reverie. "I'm not asleep yet."

Sherlock sits on the edge of the bed holding out the mug. "It's still quite hot," he says.

John takes it, sips and then chokes violently, spilling hot liquid over the bedclothes.

"_Shit_, Sherlock, what have you put in this?"

"There wasn't any lemon," Sherlock says defensively. "So I put some whisky and honey. People drink that, don't they?"

John looks at him as if he's not quite sure whether this is a practical joke or just another example of Sherlock's refusal to engage with the mundane on its own terms.

"Not quite like this, usually," he says. "Have you tried it?"

"_No_," Sherlock says indignantly. "I made it for _you."_

John sighs, and holds out the mug. "Try it."

Sherlock takes a cautious mouthful and only just manages not to spit it back into the mug. "_Ugh_. That's _revolting_ – why do people -"

"As I say," John says, now obviously trying not to laugh, "they don't, not like that. You probably needed about half the quantity of whisky you put in and maybe a quarter of the amount of honey."

"Oh."

"But it's the thought that counts," John says, giggling for the first time in days.

Sherlock hadn't realized how much he's missed that sound, which is so silly and so precious and completely _John_.

He puts the mug down on the bedside table and kisses John, a real proper kiss, doing his best to ignore the distracting and really rather off-putting overtones of whisky and honey.

John's kissing him back, which is encouraging, but there's something in the way he's doing it that feels – worrying, somehow.

If Sherlock had taken more interest in kissing, maybe he'd have a better idea what it is. Lestrade would probably know, _don't think about Lestrade, not now_. He _would_ though. John liked kissing _him_ all right.

Sherlock wishes he knew what this feeling was that John is giving off. _Sad_ isn't quite it. _Uneasy_ isn't quite it. Though it feels like bits of both, and something else he can't pin down.

Well, this sort of thing isn't really his area. But if John is kissing him back then it's definitely worth trying some of the things that are.

Sherlock slides his hands under the bedclothes, feeling for the hem of John's t-shirt, moving his hands up under it, exploring and stroking. John doesn't stop him, but he doesn't catch his breath either, the way he usually does at the touch of Sherlock's hands on his skin. He's lying quite still, just letting Sherlock caress his chest, little intake of breath when Sherlock pinches a nipple but that might be pain rather than arousal. Odd. It's not like him to be unresponsive.

Sherlock lets one hand drift down to caress John's thighs, brush across his cock -

Which is also not responding as usual. It's one of the delicious things about John, how quickly and easily he becomes aroused when Sherlock starts stroking his body, and by now he ought to be at least half-hard, if not straining and arching up for more of Sherlock's touch. But there seems to be nothing going on down there at all.

Hmf. More serious measures are clearly required. Sherlock pulls back the bedclothes, moving down to take John's cock in his mouth. John whimpers, but it doesn't sound like the right _sort_ of whimper.

And nothing happens. No matter _what_ Sherlock does. Which is unprecedented.

Sherlock is baffled. John loves having his cock sucked, can't get enough of it usually. Even if other things aren't going so well, this _always_ does. He's sucked John off on at least four occasions when they've hardly been speaking to each other because of some stupid row about what Sherlock's keeping in the fridge or the bathroom cabinet, and even then it's always been _spectacularly_ good. It just doesn't make _sense. _The only times he's ever known John _not_ to get an erection pretty much straight away from this even if he didn't have one to start with are when -

Sherlock disengages himself carefully and moves back up the bed. He feels cold inside, as if John's chill has got into his bones.

Saying you've been for a run is a very good excuse for getting straight into the shower when you come home.

Saying you've been for an unusually long run is _quite_ a good excuse for coming home an hour late and then being too tired to have sex.

But there are other reasons for doing those things.

One other reason in particular.

The most obvious reason of all. And with John, who is almost always ridiculously straightforward, the obvious explanation is usually the correct one.

An echo comes back to him from the threesome, his own voice insisting _Say you're mine and no one else's_, and John's voice saying _No_. He'd thought it was John's usual thing about _nobody owning anybody_, the argument about language they'd had several times already, and which Sherlock almost always won eventually if it happened in bed. This time he hadn't won it, because Lestrade had interfered. Which Sherlock had assumed at the time was just Lestrade being a nuisance and trying to get in on the act. Now he's not so sure.

Maybe today wasn't the first time John had been to see Lestrade on his own.

Maybe all that stuff about not liking each other had just been a front all along.

That strange feeling in Sherlock's insides is back, and it's worse than ever.

He has absolutely no idea what he's supposed to do now.


	6. Chapter 6

**Consequences**

**Part 6**

**Lestrade**

_Nobody knows what goes on in a relationship except for the people in it, and half the time even they don't know_.

Lestrade's not sure where that thought came from. Or why he's spent the last ten minutes thinking about Sherlock and John's naked power struggle during the threesome. _Not_ what he should be doing right now, never mind getting half-hard at remembering what happened next. The feel of both their cocks in his clasped hands. That funny surprised little shout that John gave as he came.

Oh Christ, it's happened at last: Lestrade has finally lost the plot. Having sexual thoughts about John Watson, of all people. Even if they _are_ memories rather than fantasies. Anyway, if you replay one of those often enough it starts to become the other. Cold shower when _you _get home, Lestrade, and thank God it's almost time to go.

End of a quiet day, relatively speaking: mostly paperwork, bloody dull but _real _and somehow reassuring. Maybe because it's the opposite of 221b Baker Street. Quite nice, having a rest from all that. Not a peep out of either of them since that weird day last week when they both turned up here -

The phone rings, making him jump. _Shit_. Probably spoke too soon.

It's not Sherlock, or even Watson. But the voice at the other end makes his gut clench. In his experience that voice _always_ means trouble.

_Mycroft_. If it's not one sodding Holmes brother it's the other one, messing with his head and demanding six impossible things before breakfast -

Mycroft is saying that he needs to see Lestrade, _now_.

_**Please**__ would be nice_, Lestrade thinks, but he just says "I'm about to go off duty."

"Good." Mycroft sounds so satisfied he's almost purring.

"I mean, I'm on my way home – _about _ to be on my way home," Lestrade says. Given Mycroft's way with CCTV cameras, it's best to be _very _careful what you say to him.

"The car is waiting downstairs," Mycroft says. "Anthea will take you straight home afterwards."

"Mr Holmes -" Lestrade says, preparing to argue.

"I really _do _advise you not to be difficult, Inspector," Mycroft says. "I wouldn't want things to become – unpleasant."

Lestrade's not sure why that voice makes him think about being strangled with a silk scarf. Not in an enjoyably kinky way, either. More in a _definitely ending up unattractively dead_ way.

He tells Donovan where he's going, feeling a bit self-conscious about it but if he _is_ going to disappear then he'd like Mycroft fucking Holmes to be in _very _big trouble. Some hopes. That smug bastard could cover up anything at all and probably _does_, on a regular basis. He may claim to _occupy a minor position in Her Majesty's Government_ but Lestrade knows who's running this show. Not difficult, when Mycroft flaunts his power the way he does.

Probably gets off on it, too.

Which is _not_ a good thing to think about on his way to a meeting with the guy. First John Watson and now Mycroft. This seems to be Lestrade's night for Inappropriate Sex Thoughts Bingo. Who's next, for fuck's sake? _Anderson_? Don't even _ask_.

Mycroft's glamorous assistant is waiting, fiddling vaguely with her BlackBerry as usual. She looks up briefly from texting and seems mildly surprised to see Lestrade, though she probably isn't. The car is – of course – ridiculously comfortable and if Lestrade weren't so fucking stressed he'd be in serious danger of dropping off, even on the comparatively short journey to Whitehall.

Mycroft has that unfeasibly clear desk you only see in the offices of high-ups. Well, that and anal-retentive types. _One_ piece of paper sitting in the middle of a vast leather-topped space. He takes the document and holds it out to Lestrade.

"_Do_ sit down, Inspector. I find I concentrate much better sitting down, don't you? And I do want you to read this _carefully_."

Lestrade considers telling Mycroft Holmes to do something anatomically improbable, but he doesn't. Takes the paper from Mycroft and sits down to read it.

It's a job description of sorts. Secondment to a major investigation of police corruption, in charge of a team drawn from the combined forces of three counties. _Suspiciously_ large salary. Office about three hundred miles from London.

Why is Mycroft showing him this?

He must be looking puzzled, because Mycroft tuts. Not clear if he's tutting at Lestrade for being thick or himself for not explaining properly. Or both. Could be both.

"It's so important to get the right man for the job," Mycroft says. "Especially in such a delicate matter. But I've been watching your work for a long time now -"

Lestrade winces. Bloody annoying, but it happens before he can check himself.

"- And really it's been _very_ encouraging. I feel confident that you would be _exactly_ the man to lead this particular team."

Lestrade's never been head-hunted before. He hadn't realized it would feel so _literal_. His scalp crawls.

Presumably this is the sort of investigation where they know in advance it'll all go pear-shaped and they want some poor unsuspecting sod to carry the can. That would be Mycroft's idea of fun, right enough, setting Lestrade up for a fall. He's not sure what he's done to deserve this, but he hasn't yet lost the power of speech, so he says "Mr Holmes, if you've brought me here to offer me a job I'm afraid you're wasting your time."

Mycroft doesn't say anything. His expression suggests he finds Lestrade's response tediously predictable and was hoping for something a bit more imaginative.

"I'm not looking for this kind of promotion -" Lestrade says.

"I should warn you that you are very unlikely ever to get any other kind if you turn _this_ one down," Mycroft interrupts.

"Too bad," Lestrade says, as indifferently as he can manage. He's sweating a bit but he's not going to give this bastard the satisfaction of seeing how rattled he is. "I like it at the Yard. Not interested in going anywhere else."

Mycroft sighs. "I was hoping not to have to introduce the personal note," he says complainingly.

What the fuck is he on about? _Personal note_?

"My brother's welfare is a matter of _constant_ concern to me," Mycroft says, in a voice brimming with self-pity.

Lestrade can well imagine it but he's not sure why that should be _his _fucking problem. Says so, more politely.

"His equilibrium is _so_ perilous at the best of times," Mycroft laments. "But I _had_ begun to hope that the next phase of his life might be a more – _tranquil_ one."

Which sounds like something to do with Watson. But Mycroft still isn't making sense. Not to Lestrade, anyway. Maybe it would to his fellow bureaucrats, like a noise so high-pitched only dogs can hear it.

"Oh really, Inspector, do I have to spell it out?"

"'Fraid so," Lestrade says. "I honestly don't know what this is about."

Mycroft huffs, and for a moment his resemblance to Sherlock is quite striking.

"How can I put this?" he says.

_You could try just speaking English_, Lestrade thinks, but he doesn't say it.

"It has come to my attention that your – _influence_ – is having a disturbing effect on my brother's – shall we say _domestic_ arrangements? With his _companion_," Mycroft says, in case Lestrade doesn't understand what _domestic _means.

"Sherlock said _that_?" Lestrade is taken aback, so taken aback he doesn't realize straight away that he's also bloody _furious_. The ungrateful _sod_. The next time Sherlock makes a bollocks of his _domestic arrangements_ trying to spice up his love life he can fucking well go to - what's Marriage Guidance called these days? - Relate, like anyone else.

Mycroft smiles pityingly: "You've known my brother for five years, Inspector. Do you _really_ think he would confide in me about this sort of thing?"

The bastard's right, of course. Sherlock isn't a great one for talking about things, and everything Lestrade's ever heard him say about Mycroft suggests _he's_ the last man Sherlock would go to with a personal problem.

Mycroft and Watson, on the other hand, seem to get on surprisingly well. Made for each other, Lestrade thinks.

That little _shit_. Try to be nice to him and where does it get you? He goes running to Big Brother to have Lestrade _taken out,_ one way or another. After Lestrade had made it perfectly clear to Sherlock that he understood there wasn't to be a repetition of the threesome, and then tried to _comfort_ bloody Watson about it all. Fucking hell.

"Mr Holmes, I am really _not_ interested in your brother's domestic arrangements," Lestrade says stiffly. "Neither you nor – his _companion_ need to worry about my influence. And I am _not_ taking this job of yours."

"There are, of course, worse things than _merely_ being denied promotion for the rest of your career," Mycroft says thoughtfully.

Lestrade feels sick. Mycroft is bound to have a _really_ efficient dirty tricks department at his beck and call, so the sky's the limit on what he can do to make Lestrade's life unbearable. Maybe even end his career altogether. Best not to think about _how_.

"_Do_ think it over, Inspector," Mycroft says. "It's always best to avoid snap decisions, don't you find?"

For a brief moment Lestrade thinks his _snap decision_ might involve breaking Mycroft's neck. But they _do_ you for that and Mycroft is not worth going to jail for. Nor is Sherlock. And as for John bleeding _Watson_ -

"I'll call Anthea to take you home," Mycroft says, making it clear the interview is at an end. "Please take this with you – I'll have the further particulars sent to you tomorrow."

"I don't need them," Lestrade says through gritted teeth.

"Nevertheless," says Mycroft, genially.

Lestrade successfully resists the temptation to hit him. It's quite hard work though.

Anthea's still texting away, apparently indifferent to the world around her.

Two can play at that game.

Lestrade gets out his phone and texts:

We need to talk.

L

He's surprised how quickly the response comes:

Are you free now?

JW

Lestrade texts again:

On my way home.

There in 30.

L

Another quick reply:

I'll come round

straight away.

JW

Bastard can't wait, Lestrade thinks savagely. Probably already heard from Mycroft that he's got me over a bloody barrel.

If it's the last thing he does, Lestrade is going to make John Watson _very _sorry he ever tried to mess with him.

Not sure _how_ he's going to do that, but he's got half an hour to think of something. Maybe longer, if the traffic's bad.


	7. Chapter 7

**Consequences**

**Part 7**

**John**

The taxi ride to Lestrade's seems to take forever. Traffic's hellish tonight, John thinks. Too much time for wondering excitedly what Lestrade wants to see him about, whether something's really going to happen at last. And too much time for thinking about how it's been with Sherlock, the last few days.

They've had times before when they're hardly speaking to each other, but usually there's been some sort of row first. This time feels different. Not least because in the past the row's almost always been about something Sherlock's done wrong, which means Sherlock would usually be trying to fuck his way out of trouble. Which makes for brighter bedtimes, though it leaves a lot unresolved.

This time, though, Sherlock's preferred approach is clearly not going to work. That much was obvious from the moment John failed to respond when Sherlock tried to suck him off the other night. Since then, Sherlock seems anxious to avoid even those sort-of- accidental touches there were between him and John before they became lovers, never mind anything more deliberate. John always protests about Sherlock's habit of grabbing him and jumping him at inconvenient times and/or in inappropriate places, but now it's not happening he finds he's missing it. A lot.

The obvious thing to do – and John's kicking himself for his repeated failures to do it – would be to _talk_ to Sherlock about what's happening. Why is it apparently impossible to say what he wants to say to Sherlock? _Look, this is really embarrassing but I've actually had some sort of stupid crush on Lestrade since we had that threesome, and I know it's making me act oddly and I'm sorry and I still love you and want to be with you and I will get over this sooner or later. _Because that _is _what he wants to say. Isn't it?

He doesn't want to stop being with Sherlock. Sherlock is the most amazing thing that's ever happened to him. _Big_ love. Knocked him for six pretty much straight away. And the sex has been fantastic. Unimaginably good since – well, for ages now. This thing about Lestrade is just – odd. Maybe it's the surprise of it all, getting turned on by someone you don't even like. Maybe that's why he's not coping. He knows he doesn't want to be with Lestrade _instead. _But he does ... _want_ him. And that's hard to admit to Sherlock. Never mind explaining why he couldn't get an erection the other night. _Anyone_ could be forgiven for not wanting to tell their partner _that_.

The taxi pulls up, finally. John tries not to think about the way his pulse is racing, concentrate on paying the driver and making sure he hasn't dropped anything – he's all fingers and thumbs tonight. Lestrade buzzes him into the building and he walks up the two flights of stairs, telling himself he's getting out of condition even though he knows it's not the climb that's making him short of breath.

Lestrade opens the door and stands there looking – tense, _grim_ almost. "You'd better come in," he says flatly.

Which doesn't exactly sound like the prelude to a declaration of undying love or even to one glorious night of passion and then regretfully going their separate ways. But you never know, John thinks hopefully. His imagination's racing as fast as his pulse.

Lestrade's sitting-room _definitely_ doesn't look like the setting for a well-planned seduction. It's pretty untidy, and the sofa is piled high with what looks like a load of ironing Lestrade hasn't got round to yet.

You'd think he would at least offer John a cup of tea or something. Cup of tea would be nice. John's mouth feels awfully dry. He swallows hard. Lestrade is _staring_ at him and it's quite unsettling.

"I've been trying to think what I'd do to you once I got you here," Lestrade says.

Jesus. If ever a remark went straight to John's cock that was it.

"But I haven't come up with anything bad enough," Lestrade says grimly.

_Shit_. What's this about?

"So," Lestrade says. "You've fucked me over royally, probably just ruined my life. What _am_ I going to do to you?"

John still doesn't get it, but he's starting to sweat, and not in a good way. He thinks he can handle himself with Lestrade if it comes to a scrap, even though he's not as fit as he used to be, but he wonders how far this is going to go.

"Would you mind telling me what this is about?" he says, trying not to sound as shaken as he feels.

"Don't pretend you don't know," Lestrade says coldly.

"Honestly, I _don't_," John says. Bugger. That shouldn't have come out sounding so desperate.

Lestrade looks at him as if John is something he's trodden on without realizing it. Possibly something very dead. Certainly something that stinks pretty badly.

"Never thought you were a _coward_," he says. "But I suppose only a coward would do what you did."

That gets John on the raw. "Fuck off," he snaps. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're on about, so either _tell_ me or stop wasting my time. _You _said we needed to talk and all you've done so far is be cryptic and – and _rude_," he finishes weakly.

"_Rude_," Lestrade says. "I don't believe I'm _hearing _this. You want me to spell it out? OK. Did you or did you not get bloody _Mycroft_ to have me transferred 300 miles from here and incidentally threaten to _break_ me if I don't go?"

The room seems to be doing very strange things all of a sudden. John wonders if he might be about to faint.

"_Mycroft_," John says. "You think I - I haven't spoken to Mycroft for _weeks_. When the fuck is all this supposed to have happened? And why would I do that _anyway_ when I -" He breaks off, because it _really_ doesn't seem a good idea to say what he was going to say next.

"When what?" Lestrade says fiercely.

"When I – _like_ you a lot more than I used to," John says. Which sounds impossibly wet and about twelve years old but he can hardly say _When I really want to have sex with you again, just the two of us this time _or _When I just want you to kiss me right now_.

Lestrade now looks baffled as well as angry.

"Is that what Mycroft said?" John says, starting to feel angry himself now. "Did he _tell _you I -"

"_Fuck_," Lestrade says, apparently startled. "No, he didn't, not in so many words. Bloody well _implied_ it though. I asked him if _Sherlock_ had told him and he said did I really think Sherlock would confide in him about something like that and I -"

"And you immediately thought _I'd_ set Mycroft on you. Thanks a bunch." John knows he sounds huffy rather than contemptuous but it can't be helped. Then he does a double-take: "Wait – confide in him about something like _what_?"

Lestrade now looks straightforwardly puzzled. "You really _don't_ know what this is about, do you?"

"No," John says wearily, "that's what I've been trying to tell you."

"Mycroft said -" Lestrade's turn to break off. "Mycroft said my _influence_ was upsetting Sherlock's domestic arrangements. With you. By which I assumed he meant what Sherlock said about you reacting badly to the threesome."

The room seems to be spinning again and John's knees are giving way. He sits down hard on the bit of the sofa not covered with ironing. "Sherlock said _what_?"

"That day last week you both came to see me," Lestrade says. "He said you'd been – _upset_ by it and although he'd really be up for it we obviously couldn't do it again, and I said OK, fine, and assumed that would be the end of it."

John feels cold all over. "But that's not _true_," he says helplessly . "I – I _liked_ it. I was sort of hoping we could – oh _shit_." He puts his head in his hands. Thinks he might keep it there for a bit so he doesn't have to look at Lestrade.

Lestrade seems to be working something out. "So that's why – no, that doesn't make sense. Why _did _you come to see me that day? You never said."

John doesn't look up. "Because I – oh fuck, I can't do this, I just _can't_."

"Can't be worse than what I _thought_ it was, can it?" Lestrade says.

Well, _that's _true, John thinks. It's only humiliating and pathetic and childish and completely inappropriate.

He looks up and sees Lestrade looking quizzical, as if maybe he's guessed.

"You hugged me," Lestrade says thoughtfully.

John feels himself going bright red.

"And you were hoping we could – what?" Lestrade asks. He seems to be trying not to smile. _Oh god._

"All _right_," John says, caving in. "I was hoping we could do it again some time. You and me. I wanted that. Happy now?"

Lestrade grins. "Happier than I was when I thought you were trying to fuck me _over_," he says. "Or getting bloody Mycroft to do it for you."

John's brain still isn't working too well but something occurs to him: "If _I_ didn't tell Mycroft and _Sherlock _didn't tell Mycroft, how did he know?"

Lestrade looks startled again. "_Fuck_!" Gets his phone out and speed-dials. "Donovan? Good, you're still there, thought I might have missed you. Look, get onto Briggs and tell him I think my office has been bugged again. And _tell him to make sure they do a proper job this time_. Yes, I think so. OK. Thanks. Bye."

"_Oh_," John says. "I should have thought of that."

"_You_ should have thought of that? Fuck," Lestrade says. "I'm losing my touch, I swear. That or my marbles. _Bloody_ Holmes brothers."

Yes indeed. John hasn't had time to think about Sherlock lying to Lestrade but finds he is actually furious about that. No _way_ Sherlock could really have believed John was upset about the threesome. Just selfish manipulation. And pretending he was acting out of concern for _John_. Bastard.

And now bloody _Mycroft_ threatening Lestrade -

John is _not_ having that. He grabs his phone and dials. Mycroft answers on the fourth ring.

"Mycroft," John says, "I'm with Lestrade. He's told me _everything_. Please listen carefully. I don't want to repeat myself. You will abandon any attempt to get DI Lestrade transferred away from London. Because if you don't, or if you threaten or harm Lestrade _in any way whatsoever_ I will never see or speak to your brother again. Are we clear?"

Mycroft is spluttering at the other end.

"Lend me your phone," John says to Lestrade. He texts:

Stop lying and tell

Mycroft to back off.

Or start looking for

a new flatmate.

Your choice.

JW

"I'm sending a text to Sherlock now," John says. He reads it out to Mycroft and presses Send. "And now I'm going to hang up."

Lestrade looks moderately impressed. John's quite surprised himself. Didn't know he could pull that routine off, not with Mycroft.

"Sherlock will have fifty fits when he gets that," Lestrade says.

"No more than he deserves," John says grimly. He's suddenly completely exhausted, almost collapsing after the strain of the last half-hour. "I don't think I can go back there tonight. If I see Sherlock I might try to put his head through a brick wall."

"You can stay here if you like," Lestrade says. "Spare pyjamas somewhere about, probably a toothbrush as well."

"Thanks," John says awkwardly. He looks at the pile of ironing next to him on the sofa and then at Lestrade.

"Do your back in as soon as look at you, that sofa," Lestrade says. "You'd better come in with me. 'S all right, I won't molest you. Not unless you ask me _really _nicely."

"Fuck off," John says, blushing.

Though he's wanted this so much, being in bed with Lestrade, John doesn't really think anything's going to happen. They're both knackered, for a start, and anyway Lestrade might not be that interested in having sex with him if sex with Sherlock isn't also part of the deal.

Turns out John's wrong on both counts. Not that he's complaining.

The kiss starts off tentative, just a quick brush of lips against each other, and then Lestrade's pulling him in closer, stroking his back as John groans and opens his mouth, desperate for more. Just as well they're already lying down or John would be _falling_ down, dizzy with the pleasure of Lestrade's tongue in his mouth, searching him out, making him moan shamelessly. Lestrade's kiss is slow and determined and completely irresistible and John feels much too close to coming apart already. He kisses Lestrade harder, so hard it's almost a bite, and Lestrade gives a sort of _growl _and bites him back.

Clearly there's still quite a lot of undischarged aggression crackling around the bed – mostly towards the Holmes brothers – and it's all going to have to go _somewhere_.

"Oh God," Lestrade groans, wrapping his legs around John's and pushing hard against him as John bites his neck and digs his nails into Lestrade's shoulders.

"Is this asking you _nicely_ enough?" John forces out, shoving his hand down between them to grope Lestrade's cock.

Lestrade's groaning too much to say Yes, but John doesn't insist. He's about to be too busy to talk himself.

This time, unlike in the threesome, Lestrade doesn't come in John's mouth. Because John pulls away as Lestrade's getting close and says that he wants Lestrade to fuck him.

Putting a condom on isn't usually a two-man job but there are times when two pairs of shaky hands are better than one.

"_Breathe_," John says fiercely, and then finds he can hardly breathe himself as Lestrade works him open and pushes into him.

It feels strange to be doing such an intimate thing with someone he used to – _hate_, almost. John is stretched out to the limit, crammed full once Lestrade's all the way inside him. They lie still for a moment, staring at each other as if they can't quite believe they're really doing this, and then they're moving, both of them, pushing faster and harder all the time. John's crying out as his muscles clench tight around Lestrade's cock, and Lestrade comes, swearing and pulling at John's cock to bring him off.

"Bloody hell, Watson," Lestrade says, panting. "For a moment there I thought you were going to break it _off_."

"That – would be – a _tragedy_," John gasps, and collapses in a fit of giggles.

They lie there for a while, sticky and breathless.

"_Really _shouldn't have done that," John says, predictably overtaken by remorse.

"Squares the circle, though, doesn't it?" Lestrade says.

"What do you mean?" John suddenly feels cold all over again. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"He didn't tell you," Lestrade says. It's not a question. "_Shit_. Sorry. I thought you knew. It was only the once, months ago, don't really know how it happened. You know what he's like sometimes," Lestrade adds, unforgivably.

"Yes," John says. "Well, I thought I did."

"Probably not a great time to find that out," Lestrade says. "Sorry. I did _tell_ him he'd got to be honest with you. Should have known he wouldn't take a blind bit of notice."

John's furious with Sherlock and also guilty about what he's just done, and that feels awful. But this whole situation _is_ also funny, in a ghastly sort of way. He starts laughing, so hard it hurts, and finds he doesn't quite know how to stop.

"Should I throw cold water over you or slap your face or something?" Lestrade offers helpfully.

"I think that's not supposed to happen till the third or fourth date," John says, and starts whooping again.

"Give An Old Joke A Home Week gets earlier every year," Lestrade says, not unkindly, patting John rather hard on the back.

Eventually John calms down enough to start drifting off, even though he _is _sleeping on the wrong side of the bed for him. Should have known they'd both want the same one, he thinks, and giggles again.

"Honestly, it's like being in bed with a hyena," Lestrade grumbles.

"I didn't know you were into bestiality," John says.

"Shut up and _go to sleep_, Watson," Lestrade says. "_Or else_."

John falls asleep before he can find out what _or else_ was going to be.


	8. Chapter 8

**Consequences**

**Part 8**

**Sherlock**

Sherlock sits staring at the text message that says

Stop lying and tell

Mycroft to back off.

Or start looking for

a new flatmate.

Your choice.

JW

He's checked five times and it really _was_ sent from Lestrade's phone. Which either means Lestrade has taken to forging John's texts (unlikely) or that John and Lestrade must be together. _Together_, meaning, at the very least: _in the same place_. Which would spell trouble, even if the text message hadn't already made that clear.

Might mean more than that.

Using someone else's phone isn't necessarily a sign of intimacy. He knows that. Borrowed John's phone the first time they met, _don't think about that because it actually fucking __**hurts**__. _It doesn't have to mean John and Lestrade are -

Not going to think about that either.

His head feels painfully full of all the things he's not thinking about. The racket of them makes it impossible to concentrate. It's not till the sixth reading that he asks the obvious question, the one he should have asked _right away_.

What has Mycroft done _now_?

It's no good texting Mycroft, not in this sort of emergency. Too easy for him to lie or wriggle out of it somehow. The same goes for phoning. He'll just have to go round there.

Sherlock doesn't think for a moment that Mycroft won't be home. As it happens, he's right not to. Though Mycroft clearly _was_ on the point of going to bed. That patterned dressing-gown really doesn't suit him, but he never listens to advice about clothes. Especially not from his younger brother.

"Sherlock," Mycroft says, sounding uneasy.

Doesn't ask what Sherlock wants or why he's here, which is a bad sign, Sherlock thinks.

"What have you _done_, Mycroft?" Sherlock asks fiercely.

Mycroft fidgets but doesn't answer.

"What have you done to _John_? _Tell_ me!"

"I was only trying to _help_," Mycroft whines.

Sherlock's not sure how his hands got round Mycroft's throat, but throttling Mycroft seems quite a good idea so he doesn't take them away. Not until Mycroft's starting to go limp and has turned a _very_ nasty colour.

Mycroft collapses into a chair, clutching at his throat and gasping. It occurs to Sherlock, belatedly, that rendering his brother incapable of speech is not the best way to find out what's going on. Not going to _apologise_, though.

Eventually Mycroft stops gasping and wheezing and says "I tried to persuade DI Lestrade – that he should – leave London. And your companion – took exception to that."

"Don't keep calling him that!" Sherlock yells. "I am not an old lady and he is not a poor relation! He's my _lover_. Or he _was_, until you just ruined _everything_ with your _stupid_ heavy-handed – interfering – _stupidity_!"

"I was merely trying to act in your interests," Mycroft moans. "Lestrade seemed to me to be having a – disruptive influence on the delicate balance of your domestic affairs."

"I was _handling_ that!" Sherlock roars.

"I don't _think_ so," Mycroft says, witheringly.

He's clearly feeling better and Sherlock wonders about throttling him again. Mycroft sees the look in Sherlock's eye and grabs his umbrella. Flourishes it defensively.

"What do you mean, _you don't think so_?" Sherlock says indignantly.

Mycroft reaches for the manila file on the coffee-table but Sherlock gets there first. Surveillance photographs cascade onto the Persian rug. Images of John. Images of Lestrade. And one image of the two of them together.

John in Lestrade's office. With his arms around Lestrade.

Sherlock's legs seem to have given way under him because he finds he's in a heap on the floor. He sits up and starts shuffling furiously through the photographs, looking at the date and time on each. Plenty more shots from that day but nothing of John and Lestrade together that evening. Just Lestrade going home and John running. _Lots_ of John running. Going back to the surgery. Going into the Underground. Same time as Lestrade is going in the opposite direction. So they _hadn't_ -

But that picture of them in Lestrade's office. _Not good._ He looks up at Mycroft. Looks down again at the photograph and sees that Lestrade looks a bit surprised and certainly isn't hugging John back. Which ought to make Sherlock feel better, but really doesn't.

"Why didn't you show me these?" he says. "Or _tell_ me?"

Mycroft sighs. "It didn't seem – advisable. Better to deal with it by removing the cause of the disturbance, or so I thought. I'm afraid I have been guilty of an egregious miscalculation."

"Are there – more of them together?" Sherlock asks. His mouth is dry and he feels dizzy.

"No," Mycroft says. "Though I fear there will be tomorrow. Dr Watson is with him now."

"Yes, thank you, I know that!" Sherlock snaps. "He sent me a threatening text message on Lestrade's bloody phone!"

Mycroft swallows hard. "I know," he says. "He read it to me when we – spoke earlier. Please tell him I will – do _exactly_ as he says."

Which doesn't sound like Mycroft at all. As Sherlock points out.

"It's essential to recognize when retreat is the most prudent course," Mycroft says stiffly. "And I am confident that once Dr Watson knows I have – withdrawn the pressure on DI Lestrade he will not feel the need to -" He stops. Swallows hard again.

"To _what_?" Sherlock demands. He doesn't like the way this is going _at all_.

Mycroft doesn't usually swear but he looks the closest to saying _Shit_ that Sherlock's ever seen him.

"_Tell_ me," Sherlock says, lunging at him. Not easy to do from a sitting position.

Mycroft pushes him in the chest with the umbrella. Which hurts more than he'd expected.

Reluctantly, Mycroft says "He threatened that if I did not – leave DI Lestrade alone, he would – break off all contact with you. Permanently."

For a moment everything is red and green and all Sherlock can see is strange floating shapes. The room's gone very cold.

"Sherlock," Mycroft is saying, "_Sherlock. _He's not going to do it. I promise. I won't let it happen."

"_You_ can't stop it," Sherlock says bitterly. "All _you_ can do is _wreck_ things."

"I really am most terribly sorry," Mycroft says, and for once he actually sounds it.

"If he – if that happens," Sherlock says, "you'll have my death on your conscience."

"_Must_ you be so melodramatic?" Mycroft laments.

"I'm _not_ being melodramatic," Sherlock says. "It's true. _Nothing _else – there's no _point_ if he's not there."

Mycroft doesn't say anything. Sherlock can't see his face because everything's gone a bit blurred.

"_What?_" Sherlock says.

"Nothing." But Mycroft's voice gives him away.

"I don't want your _pity_," Sherlock says furiously.

"You don't have a choice, I'm afraid," says Mycroft. "I _thought_ this might happen if you ever -"

"If I ever what?"

"If you ever acquired the sort of emotions most people have to deal with at some point in their lives."

Sherlock has always thought most people are idiots. Now he wonders if they just spend their lives going crazy because of feeling like _this_. No wonder they can't reason from A to B.

Eventually, and not without extreme difficulty, Mycroft persuades him that the best thing is to go back to 221b, in case John has come home by now.

He hasn't, of course.

And he isn't replying to any of Sherlock's texts.

Sherlock tries ringing him. Even tries ringing _Lestrade_. Voicemail, both of them, every time.

It's a long night. Nothing to be done. And too much to think about, or worse, _imagine_.

John and Lestrade.

John spending the night with Lestrade.

John and Lestrade doing the things that belong to John and _Sherlock_.

Some of which Sherlock doesn't even have to imagine any more, because he's _seen _them. _Made_ them happen.

He tries to tell himself John wouldn't, but really why _shouldn't_ he?

It's not as if Sherlock hasn't deserved it. Or done the same himself. He doesn't like to think how John would feel about _that_ if he knew.

He could go round there and break in, find out for sure, but if they're together, if they're -

For the first time in his life, Sherlock's desire to know, to observe, meets something stronger than itself.

The long night is followed by a long day. Still no word from John. He's been gone nearly twenty-four hours.

Sherlock's tried ringing the Yard and the surgery but they just keep saying they can't put him through, the line's busy right now. Probably taken the phone off the hook or something.

He's fairly sure now he was wrong before about John and Lestrade. He's been searching for clues ever since that night last week and found nothing.

If it hadn't been for _Mycroft_, interfering like that, maybe nothing _would_ have happened.

It's still _just_ possible that nothing has. Given how Lestrade looked in that photograph.

Just because _Sherlock_ finds John endlessly fascinating and completely irresistible, doesn't mean everybody _else_ has to.

And Lestrade is a decent man, though Sherlock hasn't behaved at all well to him either.

_Bloody_ Mycroft.

Sherlock doesn't know what it means that John threatened Mycroft with _that_ in order to protect Lestrade. It _might_ just be John's hatred of bullying, which is pretty strong. On the other hand, it might not.

He can't let himself think about what it would be like if John actually _did_ that.

Sherlock sends the same text again; he's lost count of how many times he's sent it already.

Not lying any more.

Have made Mycroft

back off. Please

come home.

SH

As an afterthought this time, he texts:

Bring Lestrade

if you like.

That doesn't look quite right, so he adds:

And if he likes,

of course.

SH

Still something missing though. He sends a third one:

If I say I'm sorry

and I won't do it

again, will you

come home?

Please.

SH

To his astonishment, this one gets a reply.

Define *it*.

JW

Sherlock blinks. Thinks about it. The definition seems too long for one text, or even two.

He always used to prefer texting but that was when life was simpler. When all he wanted to say was _Wrong!_, or at most _If brother has green ladder, arrest brother_.

He selects John's number and presses Call.

It rings for a long time. Sherlock imagines John looking at the caller display and deciding whether to answer.

He remembers that first meeting, can't help it. Reading the signs of John's life so easily from Harry Watson's discarded mobile phone. The excitement of showing off his deductions to John, and the thrill of someone finally saying "That – was amazing" rather than the usual "Piss off".

"Sherlock." John's voice now, answering his call. The sound catches Sherlock in the throat and for a long minute he can't say anything at all.

"I'm sorry," he says eventually. "Sorry I lied to Lestrade. Sorry I lied about you. Sorry about what Mycroft did, but I didn't ask him to, _really_ I didn't. Sorry for not treating you properly. For behaving as if I owned you. Sorry about the threesome and making a mess of everything. I won't do it again. I promise. Please will you come home now?"

There's a longish silence at the other end and then John says "I think the list is pretty much correct. Not sure I believe you about not doing it again, though."

"Nothing makes _sense _without you," Sherlock says desperately.

There's another long silence.

"Have you had anything to eat today?" John says.

"Yes!" Sherlock shouts. Then, remembering he's supposed not to be lying any more, he says "Not really."

John sighs.

"I will if you want me to," Sherlock says, anxious to please.

"We're not playing this game, Sherlock," John says grimly.

"OK, I will _anyway_," Sherlock says, panicking. "Going to make some toast now."

"Try not to set fire to the kitchen," John says. "You know how Mrs Hudson hates it when you do that."

Sherlock's not sure if this is a joke or not. It might easily _not_ be, given the number of times he _has _set fire to the kitchen.

"Are you going to come home?" he asks.

"I don't know," John says. And hangs up.

Sherlock makes toast without setting fire to the kitchen. Forces himself to eat though he really doesn't want to, but it feels as if not doing what he promised John might make John not come back at all. Manages almost half a slice. Fights the desire to throw up. Makes himself a cup of tea and forgets to drink it.

He thinks about shooting at the wall again but he's not sure where John's hidden his gun this time and finding it seems too much like hard work.

He plays the violin for a while but the music's making it worse so he stops again.

He puts the television on but it's too much, too loud, too full of other people's lives and horrible jagged messy emotions and colours and shapes and movements. Puts it off again.

He hears footsteps on the stairs. A key turning in the lock.

_John_. And behind him, Lestrade.

Sherlock's not sure what this means. Not sure at all.


	9. Chapter 9

**Consequences**

**Part 9**

**Lestrade**

Sherlock looks rough, Lestrade thinks. Sherlock looks like _shit_, actually. Bedraggled. Unshaven, hair standing on end. Obviously still in yesterday's clothes. His eyes are bloodshot. Cheekbones look sharper than ever, is that even _possible_? There's almost nothing of him, seen sideways. Lestrade wonders how long Sherlock hasn't been eating, though he knows Sherlock doesn't, much, even at the best of times.

John looks – shocked, as if he's seeing Sherlock properly for the first time in days. Might be true, Lestrade thinks. Seems like John's been going round in a fog since that business of the threesome. Having an embarrassing crush on someone you used to loathe probably _does _have that effect.

Got it out of his system now, though. Best medicine for that sort of thing, a damn good shag. Deals with the sexual tension _and_ brings you back down to earth. John had been a bit awkward and tense at first this morning, wasn't sure what he'd got himself into. And _so_ relieved when Lestrade had set him straight that Lestrade might almost have been miffed about it if it hadn't all been so _funny_.

- _I don't know what_ _**you're **__laughing at._

_- At __**you**__, you idiot. Shitting bricks 'cause you think we're supposed to be a __**couple**__ or something now. It's just a shag, for pete's sake. A very __**nice**__ shag, not sorry it happened, but that's all folks. Now give us a hug and get __**dressed **__or we'll both be late for work._

The hug and what followed had made them late for work anyway. Oh well. Can't be sensible _all _the time.

Sherlock's staring at John, obviously trying to read him and equally obviously getting absolutely nowhere. Doesn't look at Lestrade at all. Probably trying to pretend he doesn't exist.

"Did you get my other messages?" Sherlock says. His voice is cracked, sounds like he hasn't had much to drink in the last twenty-four hours either.

"Yes," John says, stonily.

A hundred and fifty-four of them, give or take.

"You didn't answer," Sherlock says, sounding – well, more baffled than anything else. Stupid fucker.

"No."

This is clearly going to be a long one.

"I'm going to make a cup of tea," Lestrade says. "Anyone else?"

They ignore him. Still staring at each other.

Lestrade makes his tea and sits down in his favourite armchair. Might as well be comfortable. In normal circumstances – whatever the fuck _those_ would be, probably _aren't_ any for this sort of thing – he'd just make an excuse and leave. But John had been quite clear that he wanted Lestrade there for his talk with Sherlock. _Not_ so clear whether what John really wanted was someone to protect him from _Sherlock_, or to protect him from _himself_. Possibly both. Probably both.

"You slept with him?" Sherlock says to John.

"Slept with him, yes," John says. "And had sex with him."

Lestrade winces. Sherlock had that coming, but still.

Sherlock doesn't say anything, but he looks like he wants to say _a lot_.

"_You_ did too," John says, sternly.

"You _told_ him that?" Sherlock says furiously, rounding on Lestrade.

"Didn't realize you hadn't told him yourself," Lestrade says calmly. "He deserved to know, though, don't you think?"

Sherlock looks to be struggling with that one, but doesn't say anything.

"Seems to me we're all square," Lestrade says. "If you can say that about a triangle."

Sherlock glares at him. Jokes about geometry still not flavour of the month, then.

"What I mean is, time to start over," Lestrade says. "You – or just possibly _we_ – need to work out what the ground rules are for the next bit."

"Yes," John says. "That _is _what needs to happen now."

There's a long silence, and for once Lestrade is _not _going to be the one to break it.

Nor, it seems, is John. Waiting for Sherlock to crack. And he _does_. Amazing.

"Do you want to be with _him _instead of me?" Sherlock asks. Sounding so completely wretched that Lestrade's surprised John doesn't just hug him right there and then. Surprised, and impressed. But then John _is _more stubborn than pretty much anyone Lestrade's ever known. Even with Sherlock.

"I wouldn't be here if I did," John says.

Sherlock doesn't say anything, but he looks like he's just been told the firing squad's gone on strike.

"I want to be with you," John says. "I love you. But I can only stay with you if I know I'm free to go."

"But I can't live _without_ you!" Sherlock says. It comes out like something he didn't mean to say but he just can't stop himself.

John's face darkens. Lestrade knows without being told that John's going to be allergic to that sort of talk. Given Harry Watson's drinking. Addict in the family, you develop a pretty strong resistance to anyone trying to make _you _feelresponsible for whether _they _live or die.

"I told you, we're not _playing _that game," John says. His voice is hard, angry. "And it's not true anyway. You did before we met and you will again if you have to."

Sherlock doesn't say anything. Still looks pretty wild.

"If we're together it's because we _want_ to be," John says. "Not because we _have_ to be."

"I want to be," Sherlock says. Sounding very lost.

"Yes, I know," John says. And hugs him, at last.

Sherlock clings to John so tight Lestrade thinks he might actually break something. But John's tougher than he looks.

"Do you want to – get married or something?" Sherlock says into John's hair.

John pulls back, scowling. "We're not _nearly _ready to have _that _conversation."

Sherlock looks a bit crestfallen, but hugs John ferociously again.

Lestrade tries to work out whether John has now finished his talk with Sherlock and whether it's therefore time for him to go. He's starting to feel a bit like a spare prick at a wedding. Even if it _is _too early for Sherlock and John to be having that conversation.

It's pretty obvious that the relationship between those two is _not _going to accommodate a third party, not on a regular basis. Might be able to cope with occasional _visits_ from a third person, though Lestrade's not even sure about that. It's true there was a time when Lestrade would have liked a serious long-term thing with Sherlock himself, but _that's_ clearly never going to happen. And though sex with John was really unexpectedly good, because he's much more fun in bed than Lestrade would ever have imagined, that's as far as _that_ goes.

Making a threesome work physically is a fuck of a lot easier than trying to get three people's emotions under control, Lestrade thinks. That really _is _ herding cats in bed. _Don't try this at home_, as the children's TV presenters used to say.

Sherlock is kissing John now, quite seriously, and John is kissing him back and making little noises in his throat that Lestrade recognizes as his cue to leave the stage.

"OK, I'm off," he says, getting up. "Bit of a short night last night -"

Sherlock breaks off the kiss in order to glare at Lestrade. John pulls Sherlock's head back down and kisses him again.

"Be seeing you then," Lestrade says.

At which John pulls away from Sherlock and comes to hug Lestrade apologetically. "Thank you," he says, and kisses Lestrade on the cheek.

"Don't mention it," Lestrade says, giving him an affectionate slap on the arse.

Sherlock is fidgeting about impatiently, obviously wanting to get back down to serious business with John, but he can see something's expected of him at this point. So he hugs both of them, rather awkwardly. Long arms are an advantage for that sort of thing.

"_You_," Lestrade says. "Behave yourself, if you can."

"I'll try," Sherlock says. "I really _will _try."

Lestrade thinks he means it, too. As much as Sherlock is capable of meaning any such thing.

Fuck knows what Sherlock trying to behave will actually look like. But that's not Lestrade's problem any more.

One of the things about being grown-up is knowing when it's time to leave.

There's music coming from an open window next door. Must be Mrs Turner's _married ones_. Opera queens, Lestrade thinks. Might have known it. Sounds quite nice, though, and he stands still for a bit in the street, listening.

Women's voices, three of them he thinks, weaving around and around each other till you can't tell which is which. One voice, singled out for a moment, and then a new tune, just two female voices this time, not weaving any more but in harmony, in rhythm with each other. It breaks off, and there's a man's voice, just a short line, and a woman's voice answering, two notes, like a sigh. World-weary. Resigned. And the love duet begins again.

Well, can't stand here all night listening to _that_. He looks up at the window of 221b, now almost in darkness. Sort of flickering light, candle or something. Huh. _Go home, Lestrade_.

It's been a bloody weird interlude, all this, but Lestrade's surprised to find he feels – sort of OK about it, actually. Letting go of Sherlock. Letting go of whatever might have developed with John. Just as well Mycroft _did _back off, because Lestrade really wouldn't have wanted to have John round his neck if Mycroft _hadn't_.

Lestrade's looking forward to a nice long meditative soak in the bath and a quiet night in. Glass of whisky, maybe two, but not more. Something mindless on the telly, or maybe a DVD. _Die Hard_ would be good. Something uncomplicated, with lots of action and no romance. Bruce Willis in a vest, Alan Rickman in a silly accent. Just the ticket. And then a good night's sleep, in his own bed. Without either of those idiot children from 221b, never mind both at once.

He's had enough messing with geometry to last him for a _very_ long time.

**Final note: What Mrs Turner's Married Ones Were Listening To**

Warnings: operatic lushness, shameless self-indulgence, seriously overblown dramatic ending, sudden appearance of three women's voices in a fic that hasn't featured ANY...

Richard Strauss, final scene of Der Rosenkavalier

most of this is up on YouTube at ruizdechavez's channel, though various other versions of the final trio and final duet exist. This version has Brigitte Fassbaender as Octavian, which has to be a bonus.


End file.
